Chapter Ten

He hardly speaks to me when he gets home. Barging through the front door, Dad grunts a muffled hello roughly in my direction. Then he heats up two jacket potatoes in the oven. Next thing I know, he's gone upstairs again, holed away in his new study. I can't wait to be back at school. I'll be away from Dad; I'll spend most days with Zack. I know I hardly know him, but whenever we're together, I just can't stop talking! Even though we've only spoken face to face three times... but still!

It's weird - I keep half-expecting mum to walk through the door, a smile painted on her made up face. Before they sent me away, it was always Dad sticking up for me; more recently, they both struggled to know how to act around me. Mum put more effort in, trying to make the visits as enjoyable as possible to make up for sending me away. Not that she had any reason to feel bad - she had no other choice, really. How could she parent the kid who had killed her best friend? I allow myself to think back to that dreadful summer's day...

*

I don't even know what to say to her. I run out of my room, sobbing hysterically like the baby I am. "You're just proving my point, you coward!" Freya yells, grabbing my wrist as I approach the stairs. I skid to a halt, looking down at the shining floors, freshly polished. "Leave me alone!" I beg, but she doesn't listen to me.

"Make me." She taunts, just like the bullyish friends of hers.

"Leave me alone!" I repeat, pushing her off of me, hard. Her squeaking shoes skid against the really slippery floor.

Everything slows to an agonising pace. Her mouth an o-shaped gape of pure terror. Her luscious hair billowing out beautifully behind her. If it wasn't for the look of fright on her face, she would look so peaceful and pretty right now. But everything after that is so terribly ugly. The sickening crunch as bone hit wood. Her body, as limp as a rag doll, tumbling down and hitting step after step. One long, continuous scream escaping from her raw throat, a wailing siren in the otherwise silence of the house.

The final thump. Her body sprawled in a horrible position: one leg twisted painfully, her back arched too far, head slumped forwards against her still chest. A large pool of blood around the back of her head, shining softly. I race down after her, skipping most of the steps in my haste. Dad rushes in, his face full of concern, but it falls when he sees what lies before him. My best friend's dead body. I scream, "Call an ambulance, Dad! Please!" I scream, pounding on her silent chest. Despite my efforts, I don't hear a single puff of breath escaping from her cracked lips.

"Jessica, what did you do? I heard you two fighting before-" My dad asks, shock taking over as he stares at me in utter disbelief.

"I didn't mean to, I swear!" I break down in a stream of tears, still attempting to resuscitate Freya.

"How could you?" He whispers, as though he's worried to disturb the sleeping girl beside us. If only she was just asleep and could rise from her slumber at any time, smiling sweetly at us...

"Dad, please! Get mum, anyone! Call an ambulance!" But he doesn't move.

When the ambulance comes, they take me in for shock and confirm that Freya is dead. A nice lady in uniform puts an arm around me and says soothing words as I frantically beg them to just save my friend. My dad spouts lies at them: "they were just playing!" "chasing each other and then-" "but now-"

*

I snap out of my trance. Normally, thinking back would pain me. And it has still, but this time, I remember something I hadn't even acknowledged at the time. The slip of her foot, the squeak of her trainer. The skidding of my feet as she grabbed my wrist. That hasn't happened before - we never polish the stairs or anywhere at the top nearby. Mum always said it was a trip hazard, not worth the risk. So why had it been polished? There's no doubt in my mind that it hadn't been done, it had been a fresh coat recently and, very generously, applied. I'm assuming that Dad had done it as mum popped out after Freya came in, but thinking back, nowhere else had been done. And I remember that day as if it were only yesterday.

When Dad comes back to take the jacket potatoes out of the oven, I analyse his every move. There are no signs of guilt or that he's hiding something, but I guess it was a long time ago now. He slices each potato smoothly down the middle and stuffs them with butter and cheese, with limp lettuce on the side. While I sit down at the table, he hands me my plate and a glass of tap water to wash it all down. I know I have to say something, but where do I start? I don't know anything for certain yet, so should I wait? But waiting wouldn't do anything, I have to ask him at some point. Because maybe, just maybe, it wasn't me who had killed Freya.

So, I slowly finish my mouthful and put down my cutlery. I open my mouth to speak, carefully planning my next words. "Dad?" I ask, acting casual. Gesturing to me to continue, he looks up at me expectantly.